


beep beep, mothertruckers

by Corrosion



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Crack, Gift Fic, Humor, M/M, PWP, Thiefshipping Dirty Santa, only a vague plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 06:34:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13118079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corrosion/pseuds/Corrosion
Summary: Malik has been ignoring Bakura in favor of his motorcycle.For prompt: Malik has another woman in his life. She has four cylinders, 200 horse power, two wheels, and Bakura wants her DEAD





	beep beep, mothertruckers

**Author's Note:**

> I'm extraordinarily sorry for this. There is no plot.

Malik Ishtar was a man of many plans, not all of them well-thought-out. In fact, many of them were not any good at all. This one, Bakura believed, took the cake; and the cake was like a cake, except if the flour were sawdust, the eggs gelatin, the milk blood, and the frosting pickled salted fresh herring. In other words, it looked somewhat like a cake, except everything about it had gone terribly, terribly wrong. That was an apt description of Malik’s plan, except it didn’t involve enough blood for Bakura to even pretend to be satisfied with it. Well, maybe the plan didn’t look like a cake, but Bakura thought the analogy deserved to be put out there. 

 

It began with Malik deciding to join the local motorcycle club. Domino City was big enough to have its own motorcycle club, and Malik had wanted in, despite only legally being allowed to drive two months ago. The club consisted of mostly men in their twenties with too much time on their hands, a demographic that Malik was unfortunately part of (It drove up the cost of his insurance.). That was the flour, the foundation, of Malik’s plan. 

 

Damn if Bakura knew what made Malik want to join the club, but he knew that the basis of his plan had a fundamental flaw—the motorcyclists drove around Domino on Saturdays, for reasons that were completely lost on Bakura, and that was when he and Malik schemed to make the pharaoh's life miserable (or at least cause him some inconvenience). Bakura’s habit of procrastination often pushed their Saturday scheming to Sunday, but the point remained.   

 

The frosting was when Malik had decided to put his motorcycle before Bakura. No matter if their plans had to be shuffled around, but Malik ignoring Bakura in favor of his motorcycle was pushing all of the wrong buttons. Mostly Kozaky’s Self-Destruct Button. Bakura was going to inflict 1000 LP of effect damage on Malik if he didn’t stop doing what he was doing. 

 

Regardless of whatever Malik planned to do on the weekend, it was his turn to cook. It was always Malik’s turn to cook because Bakura would dig through their neighbor’s trash and prostrate himself before Ryou before he would cook. Bakura liked doing things he was good at, and he lit his hair on fire the last time he attempted to cook. Fire, while good for many things, was no good as a hair product. 

 

“Bakura, can you get the black beans?” Malik said from the kitchen, where he stood over a large pot. 

 

Grumbling, Bakura placed the magazine he was reading on the couch and got over to their pantry. Their pantry was a mess, bags of who-knows-what placed haphazardly between cans that had passed their expiration date, and Bakura was sure that if he moved even a single item, the entire lot of them would fall on his face. He stared at a bag of marshmallows, as if that would divine the location of the beans, and debated about calling it quits and just having those for dinner. Laid end to end, their collection of marshmallows (big, small, candy corn-flavored) would equal Kaiba Corp. in length. It wasn’t a pretty sight. 

 

Having decided that whatever can he grabbed would have to do, Bakura grabbed a can of what he thought were black beans and brought them over to Malik. 

 

Malik took the can, but, before he opened it, he squinted at the label. “These are pinto beans, not black beans.”

 

Bakura, affronted, put his hands on his hips and asked, “What do you mean these aren’t black beans?”

 

“They aren’t black beans!” 

 

“Look, right on the can!” Bakura gestured wildly at the can of beans, hoping to get his point across. 

 

Malik pursed his lips. “I’m looking and it says pinto beans. Are you illiterate?” Actually, Malik didn’t know if Bakura was illiterate; Ryou could read and write, but Bakura came from a time before widespread literacy. What he did know was that Bakura got most of his modern memories from Ryou, and it was his own fault if he hadn’t been paying attention in Literature.

 

Bakura looked askance at Malik and made to grab the can. Once the beans were back in his possession, he thrust the can into Malik’s face and tapped the image of the beans. “They are beans and they are black, so they are black beans!” 

 

Malik shoved the can away from his face. “No they aren’t! Put them back and get me the black beans!” He pointed at the pantry for effect. 

 

In a huff, Bakura turned on his heels, can of beans in hand, and slammed the can back into the pantry. A jar of nuts toppled over and fell on his head. He wanted to jam Malik in with the rest of the nuts. Beans that were black and weren’t black beans. However mad he got, he knew that his anger wouldn’t generate dinner, so he took a strained breath and set about looking for the black beans. He located the correct beans and took them out of the pantry. 

 

Once Bakura was halfway to the kitchen, Malik said, “You know what? Nevermind about the black beans, the pinto beans will do.” Bakura was going to throw all the beans out the window.  

  
  
  
  


The next day, Bakura decided to leave his anger about the beans behind him and concentrate on separating Malik and his motorcycle. He lounged on their couch and stared at the ceiling, but his thoughts were playing golf with each other. They took forever to get anywhere, and, once they did, they launched themselves into the sand pits (bunkers) of his short-term memory. Courtesy of Zorc, his brain looked like the hardest Wii Golf level, complete with cliffs, wide rough, and nonsensical out-of-bounds.  

 

He rolled over and dangled an arm off the side of the couch. Brain fog was not appreciated, but there he was, in the San Francisco of mental states (the San Francisco of mental states was unlike the San Francisco of the United States in that it lacked both sourdough bread and the BART.). He remained like that for a while, staring at the patterns in the rug.  

 

“I’m going to wax my motorcycle,” Malik said as he passed through their living room, tub of wax in hand. 

 

Bakura wanted to shout “Wax me!” at Malik’s disappearing figure, but he really, really didn’t want to be waxed, and he doubted that he would hear the end of it from the freakier of their friends if he did get waxed. The wax was also not intended for use on humans, but he doubted that he had qualified as such for at least 3000 years. 

 

What to do about the motorcycle…? Bakura’s initial thought was to sell it for scrap at a chop shop, but he decided that Malik would simply buy another one (with stolen money). That had also removed keying the motorcycle from the list, for that could be fixed. That left putting Malik into a state in which he had to ignore his motorcycle and making Malik uninterested in motorcycles at all. The second was completely unviable, even in Bakura’s resourceful mind, and he didn’t want to deprive Malik of one of his great joys entirely. 

 

The first option implied that either Malik be injured to the point that he couldn’t ride his motorcycle or that he be sufficiently distracted from it. Actually hurting Malik turned Bakura’s stomach, though that could just be because he was lying on it. That left diverting Malik from his motorcycle. Easier said than done. Even during his previous pursuit of revenge, Malik took the time to obtain a motorcycle and learn, if not traffic laws, then how to drive it. The only thing that worked before was sex, which, Bakura admitted, was very distracting. 

 

Bakura rolled over and shot to his feet, seized by the idea. By killing two birds with one stone, he could both return Malik’s attention to him  _ and _ get laid more often. Okay, maybe they had sex twice a week already, but he and his dick were of the opinion that they could be having it even more. All that time in the desert, alone, and 3000 years of Zorc-enforced celibacy had to be remedied somehow. 

 

As tight as his pants were getting, Bakura was certain that he didn’t want to fuck in the garage. There were all sorts of bugs in there and he didn’t want them near his unmentionables. He would just have to wait for Malik to be done waxing his motorcycle. He twitched, a wild look to his eyes, and sat again. 

 

His dick was upset by the developments, and, glaring at the bulge in his pants, Bakura said, “Go the fuck back down.” Nothing changed.

 

“What’s wrong with you?” It twitched and he groaned in frustration, sexual and otherwise. 

 

“If you don’t stop that, I’m going to slap you.” Well, no, he wouldn’t. That would hurt, but what his dick didn’t know wouldn’t hurt it. His dick remained obstinately rigid. 

 

“Oh, fuck you too.” Bakura growled and grit his teeth; if Malik returned, his options were to either pounce on the man or explain why he was arguing with his dick.  

 

Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Malik did not return in a timely manner, and so Bakura was left on the couch with his dick hard and his thirst unquenched. 

  
  
  
  


Friday rolled around and Bakura was beyond frustrated. In the days since the last Saturday, when Malik had met with the motorcycle club, there was no sex to be had. So far, his plan to distract Malik with sex was a complete and total bust. Gods, what he would do to get his hands on Malik’s bust, and just his hands, not even his dick at this point. Every day, both of them had been too tired to have sex, and Bakura was ready to hump Malik’s motorcycle in lieu of the actual person.  

 

It was also just Bakura’s luck that today was one of the days Mariku decided to take control of his and Malik’s body. Oh, yes, Mariku was back and had been ever since Kaiba blew up his space station (Kaiba’s space station, not Mariku’s space station. Mariku did not, does not, and should not ever own a space station.). Apparently, Shadow Games couldn’t cure mental illness. Who knew. 

 

When he got back and made himself known, Mariku appointed himself Malik’s protector. No one wanted him to do that, but he did it anyway. Bakura would have approved of his metaphorically giving the middle finger to authority and authority’s sense of who could do what, if Mariku hadn’t tried to protect Malik from  _ Bakura _ . What could Bakura do to Malik? Have sex with him? Well, yes, that was one of his goals. Drive a wedge between him and the pharaoh? That was item number one on his to-do list. Get him arrested for being Bakura’s accomplice? No! What kind of criminal did Mariku think he was, that he would be caught by mundane police?

 

The only upside to Mariku’s return was he hated the pharaoh as much as Bakura did. On the other hand, it was immensely frustrating to to explain to him why they couldn’t just run over to Kame Game Shop and annihilate the pharaoh where he stood. Usually, those explanations involved reminding Mariku that they didn’t have the Items anymore and, knowing Atem, stabbing him wouldn’t work. Very disappointing, that. Bakura  _ liked  _ stabbing. 

 

Today also didn’t look like one of the days that Mariku and Malik constantly switched control of their body. Malik once described their rapid-fire switching as playing hot potato, except their body was the hot potato, everybody wanted the hot potato, and the goal was to end up as the one with the hot potato. It wasn’t like playing hot potato at all. Today, Mariku had seized the potato and was going to make mashed potatoes with it. Bakura had no idea what that meant, but he didn’t like the sound of it. 

 

“Oh, fuck me,” Bakura said as he flopped back on the couch. The couch was getting a lot of use, but not in way that he wanted it to. He wanted to talk to Malik, but guess who was fronting. 

 

Mariku inclined his head, looking up from where he was reading some cookbook. “No thank you.”

 

“What the shit.” Bakura wasn’t sure what he was asking about: Mariku responding without malice or him reading a cookbook. He glanced at the cover of the book and narrowed his eyes when he saw a picture of a roast--what was Mariku, a vegetarian, doing reading about meat? Perhaps wisely, he refrained from asking about the cookbook.  

 

“Our therapist told us we should try to be more polite.” Mariku turned his attention back to the cookbook and flipped a page. 

 

As far as Bakura was concerned, their therapist was a miracle worker, and he wanted her nowhere near him. She had stopped Mariku from murdering people or even getting the body accused of attempted murder. That didn’t stop him from  _ threatening _ murder, mayhem, and destruction, but, you know, baby steps. 

 

“Why?” Bakura was willing to try his luck with asking the other about it; normally, Malik wasn’t willing to divulge information about his visits to the therapist, and Bakura wasn’t about to pry. There were some lines even he wouldn’t cross. 

 

A vein popped up on Mariku’s face. Bakura was about to vamoose, but all Mariku did was glare at him, murder in his eyes. “That’s not for you to know.” 

 

A few moments passed, and Bakura’s legs grew restless. The belligerence was gone from Mariku’s demeanor in a flash, but Bakura knew it could return just as quickly as it went. Mariku grinned and the “oh no” feeling returned to Bakura. “Did you know that some people enjoy the thought of being eaten?” Well, that explained the cookbook.

 

Bakura stared at the ceiling in despair. Why had—no, he knew why Mariku had told him, but why had he told him now? ...Actually, it was better for him to be told now instead of the information popping up while he was having sex with Malik. Malik had no idea what was sexy to say and what wasn’t and it wouldn’t be the first timed he screamed at Mariku for his thoughts during sex. Bakura preferred him to scream for different reasons. 

 

“Well, fuck you too,” Bakura said, settling on one option out of many. A very large part of him just wanted to vacate the premises and be done with this conversation, yet he knew that Mariku wouldn’t leave the subject alone until he was satisfied, and that wasn’t an image that he wanted at all. 

 

“Some kink is nonsexual,” Mariku said, conversationally. The cookbook was placed conveniently in front of the front of his pants, not that Bakura was looking. It was Malik he was attracted to, not Mariku. 

 

Bakura was, in the words of Jounouchi, “disappointingly vanilla,” which said something about the time he spent with Yugi, who was not “disappointingly vanilla.” Bakura hadn’t been offended about being called “vanilla,” not after learning about what Yugi and the pharaoh got up to. If they surrounded themselves in a fort with the details of their sexual exploits, they would forever be safe from him. Bakura had ascended a lamppost at the thought of even play piercings while Mariku laughed (laughed during his ascension of a lamppost, not while he was getting pierced). 

 

“Are you paying attention to me?” Mariku said and looked up from his book. 

 

“Unwillingly.”

 

Mariku inclined his head to the side. “No one’s tied you up.” That was another thing that Bakura couldn’t do; regardless of whether it reminded him of when he was a child, getting caught stealing and subsequently being punished, or whether he simply didn’t like it, he avoided it. 

 

“You’d bring it up later,” Bakura said, turning his nose up at the other, “and I’d suffer then as well as now.” He winced internally; he hadn’t meant to say that he was suffering. 

 

“I’m not going to eat  _ you _ ,” Mariku said, emphasizing the “you” in a way that made Bakura uncomfortable. Oh, gods, would he have to hide a half-eaten body? He also hadn’t addressed Bakura’s concerns, but talking to Mariku was like talking to a neural network; one could get sentences that had some semblance of coherency, but sometimes the best one could get out of him was word salad. Bakura admitted that his life sometimes felt like word salad, but it also sometimes felt like salad salad. 

 

“I’d like to see you try,” Bakura began, “no I wouldn’t,” he finished, rushing to get the words out of his mouth before Mariku took it as a come on.  

 

Mariku laughed, low and dangerous, teeth bared. “I wouldn’t have to try—you’re weak.” It became clear to Bakura that Mariku was no longer interested in the book and that was a bad thing. A very bad thing. 

 

Bakura sensed that now was the time to skedaddle, but his senses had also gone permanently haywire, so he ignored them. “And yet I’m still stronger than you.” 

 

Another vein popped on Mariku’s face; he struggled not to claw Bakura’s eyes out. His fingers dug into the chair’s padding, book forgotten on his lap. “Shall we test that out? Do you desire a one-way ticket to the darkness?” Neither of them had the power to start dark games anymore, but they still threatened each other with the Shadow Realm on a regular basis. Malik said that they could bond over having been trapped in the Realm.

 

“Malik would be so very disappointed if I were to disappear,” Bakura said, playing with fire, “and you can’t possibly protect him from the world.”  Going back and forth about who would win in a dark game would get them nowhere, so he had changed the topic. 

 

Mariku narrowed his eyes but said nothing. After a moment, he picked up the cookbook again; Bakura could see his fingers shaking in seething rage. 

 

“Good. We seem to be in agreement.” Bakura sighed and looked at the ceiling again. What had he done to deserve Mariku? Nearly destroy Egypt and the world that’s what. 

  
  
  
  


Saturday came all too quickly for Bakura’s tastes. Malik was prancing around their house in his biking jacket; Bakura would have approved had it been sex-related instead of motorcycle-related. 

 

Malik popped his head into their living room and said, “Bakura! Get dressed; we’re going in 15 minutes!” He was talking about the motorcycle club meeting, which Bakura had been roped into going joining.

 

Only dressed in his civvies at the moment, Bakura was not ready, mentally or physically, to go anywhere outside the house. He closed his eyes in frustration and groaned. The last night had been characterized by a lack of sex and Bakura being driven out of his mind by Malik flaunting what Bakura couldn’t have. That damn man was a tease, if nothing else. “Do I have to come?” 

 

“Yes!” Malik had on his awful cargo pants. Bakura was beginning to find cargo pants attractive, and it was all Malik’s fault. He could admit that they were useful to carry Duel Monster decks around in, but did Malik have to wear them all the time? There were other bottoms in his closet (not including Bakura, who was out and proud), so he had no excuses. 

 

Bakura swung his legs off the couch, got up, and made his way to their bedroom. If any of the neighbors saw him in his undies, it was their fault because they shouldn’t have been looking into his house in the first place. He flung the door to his side of the closet open and started to dismiss each item of clothing as unsuitable. His wardrobe consisted mostly of jeans, jackets, and, unfortunately, jean jackets; not a single one of them appealed to him right then, so he began to rifle through Malik’s side of the closet in search of acceptable biking gear. 

 

His search was fruitful, and he found a pair of fake leather (even Malik’s clothes were vegetarian) pants and a heavy long-sleeved shirt. He was in the middle of donning the pants when Malik’s voice drifted up the stairs. “Hurry up!”

 

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Bakura shouted back as he forced one leg into the pants. Maybe there was a reason why Malik didn’t wear these pants, and Bakura was quickly finding it out.

 

“What!? Were you masturbating instead of getting dressed? I said put some clothes on, not take them off!” Bakura could hear Malik’s footsteps, which were coming closer by the second.  

 

“What?” Bakura was well and truly confused now; he hadn’t the foggiest why Malik thought he had been masturbating of all things. 

 

Malik attempted to dramatically swing open their bedroom door, but, seeing as it was already open, he had to first close it and then re-open it to get the full effect. “I told you that we had fifteen minutes to get ready, so why were—” He paused to stare at Bakura, who was in the process of jumping up and down in an attempt to get the pants on. “Do you need some help?”

 

“No!” Bakura said and hopped around a bit more before finally squeezing himself into the pants. “Why did you think that I was masturbating instead of getting dressed?”

 

Malik looked at Bakura like he had somehow gotten concussed in the time between when he had been asked to get dressed and when he had gotten dressed. “You said that you were coming.”

 

“Coming  _ downstairs _ , you fool,” Bakura said and slipped the shirt over his head. He didn’t want to see Malik’s reaction to that, although he could hear it just fine. 

 

“You could have clarified.” Malik turned to head out the door. “With you you never know.” 

 

“Look, just because of that one time I put a damper on our own plans doesn’t mean I have a problem,” Bakura said while he adjusted his shirt. 

 

From somewhere on the stairs, Malik shouted, “You didn’t just put a damper on it, you foiled it entirely, remember?” 

 

Bakura winced. Malik was right, but he didn’t have to drive it in. It had been one time—Malik just held grudges like nobody’s business. As he didn’t want to admit defeat, Bakura said, “Yes, and you were the one who ruined the next one.” 

 

“Yeah sure, procrastinating until the pharaoh woke up was entirely my fault,” Malik said, having gotten back up the stairs to argue with Bakura. 

 

“You were helping me procrastinate!” Bakura left their bedroom, and Malik followed, hot on his heels. 

 

“No, I wasn’t!” 

 

“What do you call waving a packet of lube and a condom in front of my nose, then?” 

 

“Biding our time.” Malik crossed his arms; he was done with the conversation. 

 

Bakura, on the other hand, was not. “That wasn’t biding our time, that was wasting it!”

 

“Are you calling sex with me a waste of time?” Malik had, almost immediately, given up on his resolution not to argue with Bakura any more. 

 

“Maybe,” Bakura said and stuck his tongue out at Malik. 3000 years and his method of arguing had only gotten more childish. “I  _ was  _ going to have sex with you so you forgot about your motorcycle, but it seems that you want to keep your dick to yourself.”

 

“Keep my dick to myself?” Malik pressed his lips together in frustration. “You’re the one who’s always too tired to have sex.”

 

“See if I take care of your dick after this!” It was an empty threat, and Bakura knew it, but he was hedging his bets Malik didn’t know. 

 

“I can take care of my own dick,” Malik said, and he turned into the garage, where his motorcycle lay in wait. Well, that had backfired. “Are you coming with me or not?” 

 

Bakura followed Malik into the garage, looked at the machine with distaste, and managed to say, “...Fine.” He grabbed his helmet from where it hung on a rack; Malik already had his own dark purple helmet on. The both of them would take a multitude of risks, but they weren’t about to endanger their heads. He got on the motorcycle, behind Malik, and wrapped his arms around Malik’s waist. 

 

After their garage door finally decided to open, they were off. Malik’s driving left a lot to be desired. Every time Bakura rode with Malik, he felt as if at least one of them had left their brain behind, and it wasn’t him. Despite insisting on wearing a helmet, Malik was of the opinion that traffics laws were suggestions, not, you know, laws. Bakura grit his teeth as they swerved around a corner and prayed to gods he hadn’t prayed to since he was last forced to ride that accursed motorcycle. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


Bakura slammed the front door closed, and it bounced back open, as if mocking him. He slammed the door, and it did it again; he continued to slam the door until he missed, and it hit him in the face. His hands flew to check if his nose was bleeding; once he determined that the only thing bleeding was his pride, he so very carefully closed the door and locked it. 

 

“What are you doing?” Malik asked. While Bakura had had his spat with the door, he had shrugged out of his jacket and hung it up on its hook in their bedroom. 

 

Bakura stared at the door as if it would grow a hand and unlock itself—that is, he stared at the door like a mortal enemy that he was going to send to the Shadow Realm. He wouldn’t, of course, send the door to the Shadow Realm because, then, all the stray cats he had been feeding would swarm into his house. It wasn’t the cats he minded so much as their fleas. “Nothing!” Bakura shouted at Malik.

 

“Bakura, the walls were shaking.” Malik put his hands on his hips. “The walls aren’t supposed to shake.” 

 

“Maybe the walls wouldn’t be shaking if you didn’t take me to your motorcycle club meeting,” Bakura said and stalked off to their bedroom to take off the too-tight pants. 

 

Malik took a hand off his hip and raised a finger to wag after Bakura’s retreating figure. “You shouldn’t take your anger out on the house.” 

 

Bakura growled under his breath as he struggled out of the pants; he wanted to travel through time to slap some sense into past-him so he wouldn’t wear these pants. “It’s not your problem.”

 

“Are you forgetting that I live in this house?”

 

“Sometimes I wish I did,” Bakura said and, then, a little louder, “No.” He was on their bed, tugging at the waistband of the pants in an attempt to get them off. 

 

“Good.” Malik’s footsteps came closer, and Bakura dreaded him seeing how he was trying and failing to escape the pants. 

 

When Malik peeked his head into their bedroom, Bakura had, in an amazing display of flexibility, flattened himself against his legs, which were still trapped. “Go away!” Bakura said instead of the infinitely more pants-off-progressing “help me”. Say what you will about Bakura, but he never knew when to fold ‘em. 

 

“You shouldn’t have punched that man in the face.” 

 

Bakura turned his head to look at Malik but could only manage a glimpse if he strained his eyes. Malik had been upset, but not surprised, about the punching incident; Bakura suspected that he cared only about being expelled from the club and not about the man who had been punched. “You try standing there and being told that you don’t look like you can handle a moped, much less a motorcycle.” Okay, so maybe he was wearing a copy of Ryou’s twink body, but that comment had been totally unwarranted.

 

“You can’t even drive a car; I don’t know what makes you think that you can drive a motorcycle. Anyway, what I’m saying is that instead of punching him in the face you should have punched him in the nuts,” Malik said and walked around the bed to be near Bakura’s head instead of his ass. It was a very nice ass, all things considered, but right now Malik needed to have a conversation with Bakura. 

 

“If I had punched him in the nuts, then you would definitely have been expelled from the club,” Bakura said, after he managed to free one leg from the pants. 

 

Malik began to tug at the other pants leg. “That doesn’t matter. Besides, Mariku told me that you want me to pay more attention to you.” Had Mariku done that? Bakura didn’t remember telling him to do that… “Is that why you were so obstinate about going to the club meeting?”

 

“Yes.” Bakura tilted his head up so he could look at Malik. “You’ve been ignoring me in favor of your motorcycle. All you’ve been doing for the past month is maintenance on your motorcycle like it’s your girlfriend. You do realize that you can’t have sex with your motorcycle, don’t you?” 

 

Malik snorted and then paused pulling off Bakura’s pants. “What? I don’t remember ignoring you for her—”

 

“You’re even calling it a her!” Bakura was incensed and, though he knew he looked ridiculous with pants half-off, he uncurled himself, scooched forward, and put his hands on Malik’s shoulders to shake him. “You won’t have sex with me because you’re busy doing who knows what to your motorcycle, and you’re going off each Saturday to ride around town with a bunch of other motorcyclists. Am I getting boring?” 

 

“No. Do you remember that I like you enough to  _ buy a house _ with you?” Malik asked, enunciating each word, as he pried Bakura’s fingers off his shoulders. “I wouldn’t have considered doing that with anyone else.” 

 

“What about your brother?”

 

“Bakura, I don’t have sex with my brother.” Malik looked ready to shut Bakura up by either smacking him or snogging him, and Bakura didn’t know which would be worse. “Also, can we not talk about Rishid right now? I was getting excited and, now that you’ve mentioned him, I am officially Un-Horny.” Rishid had given a teenage Malik the Talk, and Malik still couldn’t mention some words around his brother without giggling to that day. Bakura had found out what sex was for himself through trial and error, but mostly error. 

 

“Well,  _ sorry _ for making your dick unhappy. Some of us haven’t had any for the past week and a half.” Complaining about that was ridiculous and he knew it, but damn if airing his grievances didn’t make him feel better. Bakura took his hands off Malik and began the last leg of the process to get the pants off. 

 

Malik looked down at Bakura. “If you keep on being snippy, neither of us will be getting any—wait, that’s not what I want.” 

 

Having successfully escaped from the pants, Bakura flung them at Malik. The pants hung off Malik, one leg to either side of his head. Malik raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Bakura looked to Malik and then back to himself. He grumbled something that could have been, “Drama queen.” Self-reflection and realization of hypocrisy were never Bakura’s strong points. He reached up and grabbed the pants from Malik. The pants he tossed into a corner of their bedroom; Malik, he pulled down for a kiss. 

 

Bakura could feel Malik smiling in victory as they kissed, and he allowed himself to be pushed back on the bed until he laid on it perpendicular to the way people normally lie on beds. The kiss intensified as Malik pushed Bakura’s shirt up; when their lips parted, a stray strand of saliva hung between them. They lay like that for half a second, then Bakura’s shirt was lifted off him and flung somewhere in the bedroom. Bakura drew in a sharp breath, for the room was colder than he expected. 

 

Malik did not hesitate in undressing himself as he knelt on the bed; his own shirt were soon discarded to the floor. His torso was soon met with Bakura’s questing hands, hands that sought to map every inch of his chest. He shuddered when Bakura traced a spiral on his pectoral that led to his nipple being rubbed. They each knew what the other enjoyed and so employed that knowledge to the best of their abilities.   

 

As one of his hands rubbed one of Malik’s nipples, Bakura crept the other down to Malik’s pants at an agonizingly slow pace. Once he reached his goal, he undid the zipper and freed Malik’s cock, which was hard. “Someone’s  _ excited _ ,” Bakura murmured next to Malik’s ear, and Malik hummed in response. 

 

Malik pressed a hand to the bulge of Bakura’s cock, which was straining against the material of his briefs with pressing need. He stroked it a few times with just one maddening finger until Bakura could bear it no longer and removed his briefs himself. 

 

As Malik smiled a cat’s smile, Bakura revelled in the knowledge that the celibacy of the past week and a half had been... _ hard  _ on the other. Bakura stopped his stroking and fondling of Malik, and the other made a questioning noise. “Take off your pants as well,” Bakura said, “I don’t want your zipper digging into my thighs.” That happened before, and the resultant chafing was unbearable. 

 

Malik huffed at that, but complied with Bakura’s wishes. He had no intention of causing his partner harm. As he took off his pants with a great deal less fuss than Bakura, he said, “Unlike you, I can actually fit into my pants.” The pants were tossed onto the floor. 

 

Even with the flush of arousal on his cheeks, Bakura could still manage shifty eyes. “Those...weren’t my pants. They were yours.” 

 

“That explains it.” Without hesitation, Malik rolled back over and onto Bakura and caged him between his arms, hands on either side of his chest. He leaned down for a kiss, and Bakura lifted his head to meet halfway. Malik shifted to his elbows to intertwine his fingers with Bakura’s hair and hold Bakura’s head with his hands, and their chests pressed together. 

 

The feeling of Malik’s heart’s beats egged Bakura on in their kiss and his tongue delved deeper. He also took the opportunity to slip his hands under the fabric of Malik’s boxers and fondle his ass, the tips of his fingers almost reaching the meet of ass and thigh. Malik moaned into their kiss and tugged on Bakura’s hair. Bakura squeezed his eyes tighter and groaned, sounds of pleasure eagerly lapped up.

 

Malik maneuvered one of his legs between Bakura’s and spread them to make room for his own. Their cocks smeared droplets of precome between them, highlighting their need. He withdrew from their kiss, much to Bakura’s disappointment, and sat back. “I’m going to grab the lube.” 

 

Bakura decided to change positions so he lay on the bed properly, his head on a pillow. When Malik turned back from their bedside table with the bottle of lubein hand, Bakura spread his legs wider. Laid back as he was, Bakura was irresistible to Malik, who longed to mark that pale skin with his hands and teeth and tongue.   

 

As Malik looked over Bakura, eyes a thin rim of lavender around pupils blown wide with lust, he began to breathe harder, cock standing at attention. He nudged Bakura’s legs just a bit wider, knees touching the other’s thighs, and squeezed out a generous glob of lube on his palm. He rubbed his palms together, warming up the lube and spreading it over both hands. 

 

With narrowed eyes, Bakura watched as Malik slipped a single lubed finger into him. He tilted his head to the side at the burn, delicious without excess pain, and a moan escaped his parted lips. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the “s”, as Malik sought out the spot that would make him melt. 

 

Practiced as he was in the realm of sex with Bakura, it didn’t take long for Malik to find what he was looking for. He licked his lips as Bakura arched, exposing the milky column of his throat. Later, that throat would bear evidence of their session, but he would restrain himself until the other was satisfied. He crooked his finger to massage that spot, and Bakura moaned. 

 

Bakura shifted his hips to take in more of Malik’s finger, to increase his pleasure, to show he wanted it so, so very badly. In turn, Malik slipped another finger in after taking the first one out to apply more lube. As Malik scissored his fingers, he stroked Bakura’s cock in time with the movements. 

 

Breaths coming faster now, Bakura squirmed, and, after a moan, asked, “Are you aiming to make me come now?” Strands of his snowy hair stuck to his forehead, and his eyes were dark. He eyed Malik’s cock and wet his lips in anticipation; he didn’t know if there was the possibility of blowjobs that night, but he was eager to find out. 

 

“No,” Malik said as he took his fingers out again and put more lube on them. This time, he thrust three fingers into Bakura, who moved his hips away from the sensation, then towards it as the stretch faded into pure pleasure. 

 

“What are you waiting for, then?” Bakura looked down his nose at Malik, an impressive feat from his position. 

 

Malik stopped stroking Bakura’s cock and paused to run his thumb over its head, smearing beads of precum over its surface. “I didn’t want to cause you discomfort.” He removed his fingers from Bakura and wiped the excess lube off with a tissue. “If you think you’re ready, then I see no reason to wait.” Lube and a condom were applied to his cock, and he placed the lube bottle back on the bedside table. 

 

As Malik nudged Bakura’s entrance with his cock, Bakura angled his hips up for easier penetration; both groaned when Malik sheathed himself within Bakura. A moment for Bakura to adjust to the sensation of being filled with something other than fingers, and then Malik began to fuck him in ernest. The sounds of their joining filled the air—their moans, the slick sound of the thrusts. 

 

After a week and a half of no sex, there could be no possibility of them lasting long, and Bakura was close to completion from Malik’s hand on his cock and Malik’s dick in his ass. Heat coiled in his gut, his breaths came faster, and he clutched at the sheets. As that moment of ecstasy approached, he began to moan without restraint, and Malik answered him in kind. The buildup grew almost unbearable until Bakura reached that peak of bliss and released. His come landed on his chest, and Malik longed to lick it off him. 

 

Malik was near to his own climax, but he continued to fuck Bakura through his orgasm; half a minute later, he, too, came. He slumped over Bakura, his hands to either side of Bakura’s head to brace himself, and they panted harshly for a few moments. “Clean up now or later?” Malik asked, once he rolled himself to the side and tossed the condom into the trash. 

 

“Mmm?” Bakura was still his post-orgasm haze and words were beyond him for now; however, he did reach for a tissue to wipe the worst of the mess off his chest. 

 

At that, Malik laughed. Their bedsheets were in disarray, the wet spot on their bed was bound to become uncomfortable later, and it was only evening, but they had a week and a half to make up for. He would settle for cuddling next to Bakura, who nuzzled him back.    


End file.
